


keep your cool

by seventhswan



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Disabled Character, Ensemble Cast, F/M, Families of Choice, M/M, Non-Binary Frisk, Other, Papyrus' quilting circle, Post-Pacifist Route
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-01 11:53:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5204918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhswan/pseuds/seventhswan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>"THE POINT IS, HAVING GRAZED MY BOAT AGAINST THE ROCKS OF LIFE, I CAN NOW GIVE YOU THE BENEFIT OF MY WISDOM!” Papyrus says.</p>
  <p>“Okay then,” Sans says, “lay your wisdom on us, bro. How do we deal with a crush?”</p>
  <p>“WELL,” Papyrus begins, laying a theatrical hand on his chest like he’s in a particularly unsubtle production of Hamlet, “PERSONALLY I FOCUSED ON ALL OF HIS WORST FEATURES AND CRUSHED MY FEELINGS DOWN INTO A TINY BALL SOMEWHERE NEAR MY FEET.”</p>
  <p>Frisk blinks at him. <b>How did that go?</b> they sign.</p>
  <p>Papyrus scowls. “TERRIBLY! HE HAS SHOCKINGLY FEW BAD QUALITIES FOR SUCH AN IRRITATING PERSON!”</p>
</blockquote><p>Frisk has a crush. Everyone tries to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Frisk in this story is physically mute but not deaf/HOH (I imagine due to permanent nerve damage to the larynx/vocal folds during childhood surgery or something similar) so uses ASL. Sans and Toriel are fluent in ASL here, and the others vary in competence level. Sans often uses sign to speak with Frisk even though technically this is not necessary, as a kind of bonding/”secret code” thing between them.
> 
> ASL sections are in **bold**. If there are any issues with how I’ve written Frisk in this situation, please don’t hesitate to let me know!
> 
> 2\. I named the nice cream vendor Ben because I couldn’t get through this whole story without needing to call him something.

**Sans**

Frisk always looks forward to the Saturday night sleepover at Papyrus and Sans’ house, but some weeks that anticipation reaches fever pitch – like this one, where Frisk has a Level 5 Problem, one that they can’t go to Toriel with because a kid has to have _some_ secrets from their mom.

All week Frisk thinks about the birthday party invitation nestled in their school backpack. They get lost in ever more elaborate and fantastical fantasies of what could happen at the party, to the point that they burn their hand while helping Toriel with dinner on Tuesday, shatter a teacup into a billion pieces on Thursday, and absently-mindedly flood a bit of the kitchen on Friday. (Friday’s fantasy having escalated to the point where the birthday party is taking place on the Titanic, and Frisk is in Jack’s position watching raptly while the birthday girl floats down the stairs. Frisk has a photographic memory of that scene, thanks to Papyrus). 

Toriel is downright cheerful when she drops Frisk on Papyrus and Sans’ doorstep on Saturday. Presumably she’s already blissfully thinking about how she’s going to go home and lie in the bath for three hours with a sackful of bath salts, and then systematically hide all her favorite cups in the cupboard under the stairs.

“Hey kid, Tori,” Sans says easily, lifting one hand in a lax wave. Frisk gets up on their toes to kiss Toriel’s cheek goodbye.

 **Where’s Papyrus?** Frisk signs, and Sans darts a semi-guilty look towards Toriel.

“Gone to the store for junk food,” he says apologetically, but Toriel just keeps smiling and puts her hands over her ears.

“Oh, what I don’t know doesn’t hurt me,” she says with a little wink. She and Sans have a minute or two of boring grown-up talk, and then Sans and Frisk stand on the porch to watch her drive off. She gives a little farewell toot of the car horn; it always makes Sans smile in that way where Frisk knows if they ask about it, Sans will avoid the question.

|

 **I need to ask you something** , Frisk signs almost as soon as they’re alone, snuggled under two of Papyrus’ home-sewn quilts in facing armchairs.

 **Okay kid,** Sans signs. His face twitches with something that could be a smile, but he says nothing. **Shoot**.

Frisk takes a deep breath.

 **What do you -** they sign, and then stop, considering. This is _weird_ , and surprisingly difficult. Their hands are a little sweaty.

 **Take your time, kid,** Sans signs lazily. He takes the opportunity to dig down the side of the couch cushion for the remote, giving Frisk a moment.

Once Sans gives them his attention again, Frisk signs **what do you give a girl if you like her? Like if it’s her birthday?** in a rush, and then immediately screws up their face like they’ve tasted something disgusting. _That_ was totally cool and detached, and not at all desperate and embarrassing.

Sans stills. Frisk waits for a few torturous seconds, feeling their heart thumping, pumping blood to their face in a terrible nervous flush. After another few seconds, Sans still hasn’t made any move to respond.

 **Sans -** Frisk signs quickly, deciding maybe they should just take it back. Maybe Sans is trying to find a way to explain that there’s no way any girl would _ever_ like Frisk back, and he’s just trying not to be mean. **Never mind, pretend I didn’t -**

 **No, wait** , Sans signs, shaking his head. **It’s okay, you just surprised me a little. I’m thinking.**

Sans thinks for another agonizing minute while Frisk tries to pay attention to the incomprehensible music video playing on mute on the TV. That doesn’t actually help as a distraction, it turns out, but methodically chewing their thumbnail does.

 **Okay,** Sans signs finally. **There’s no… There’s no one perfect present for girls or anything, just the same way there’s no one thing that every boy likes.**

Frisk thinks about that.

 **In the movies you always give the girl flowers,** Frisk signs. **So that was what I thought of first. But I don’t think this girl would like flowers. She’s… tough.**

 **Tough girls can like flowers,** Sans points out reasonably. Frisk wrinkles their nose.

 **I don’t think this girl would,** they sign. **And anyway, anyone could give her flowers. I want to give her something special.**

Ellery should get something special, because _Ellery_ is special. She beats up bullies and has a cool accent, and a strawberry birthmark right over the bridge of her nose. She pokes her tongue out between her teeth when she’s concentrating on math, and sometimes her shoes don’t match.

Sans laughs a little, almost under his breath. Frisk makes the sign for a question.

 **It’s nothing** , he signs. **I just thought this wouldn’t be something I’d have to help you with for… Six more years, at least.**

 **I’m ten now, you know,** Frisk signs, half-indignant. Sans laughs again, louder.

 **True,** he signs, and then he grins, his expression suddenly sly. **Okay, so you’re telling me we have the rest of tonight to think of something so great that it makes E-L-L-E-R-Y fall madly in love with you…**

Frisk gawps at Sans with their mouth open, stunned. Sans looks supremely satisfied with himself.

 **How do you know her name?!** they sign. The room suddenly feels like it’s a million degrees.

Sans puts the back of his hand to his forehead in a mock swoon, then reluctantly removes it so he can start signing.

 **Oh, Sans, E-L-L-E-R-Y is so cool!** he signs, in what Frisk quickly works out is an unflattering impression of them. **Do you know that she goes to karate class, isn’t that amazing? Sans, E-L-L-E-R-Y is the best artist in class, look, she drew me a picture! Sans, today E-L-L-E-R-Y beat up a boy _in sixth grade_ who was picking on a little kid, she made him cry!**

Frisk flails their arms out hopelessly, face on fire, trying to grab at Sans’ hands to stop him. Sans laughs, not unkindly, and slips out of his chair so it devolves into a wrestling match on the floor.

“Sorry kid,” he says, once Frisk has their knees on Sans’ ribs and their hands around Sans’ wrists, and has comprehensively won. “Uncle duty means I have to make fun of you about this stuff. Anyway, I think Ellery sounds pretty great.”

Frisk fights a pleased smile at Sans approving of Ellery, but loses. They slide off Sans’ chest onto the floor, relinquishing his wrists, and lie down next to him. When the weather gets better again, they’ll lie like this out on the front lawn with Napstablook, looking at the stars. It’s just another thing for Frisk to look forward to, in this new life filled with great stuff.

 **I also have an incredible solution,** Sans signs. **Who’s the toughest girl we know?**

Frisk thinks for a second, and then lights up.

 **Undyne!** they sign. **Of course, she’ll know what to do!**

Sans raises one hand for a high-five.

|

**Papyrus**

They’re still lying on the floor peacefully, covered up again by the blankets, when there’s the sound of Papyrus’ key in the front door.

“I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, RETURN WITH MY CONVENIENCE STORE BOUNTY,” he announces, his voice getting louder as he kicks the door closed and heads towards them. When he pokes his head into the lounge, Frisk can see a pack of their favorite marshmallows sticking out of the top of the grocery bag, and feels this little glow that comes with knowing you’re loved by someone – or, in Frisk’s case, a lot of someones.

“WHAT ARE YOU TWO DOING?” he asks. He sounds extremely suspicious, the way he always sounds when he’s certain there’s some fun he’s being left out of. At this angle, he actually looks upside down to Frisk.

“Frisk has a problem,” Sans says. “They need some help with…”

He gives a little sideways look to Frisk, checking it’s okay, and Frisk nods. If they tell Undyne then Papyrus will find out anyway. And it’s kind of silly, but now that Frisk has told one person, telling more feels okay. It’s still embarrassing, but it’s also kind of… Fun. It feels sort of grown up.

“A crush,” he finishes, his voice solemn. Papyrus gasps.

“A CRUSH!” he exclaims, discarding the grocery bags on the couch and hurling himself down onto the floor beside them. “THIS IS VERY EXCITING! FRISK WILL CERTAINLY HAVE THE BEST GOSSIP TO SHARE DURING MAKEOVER TIME LATER!”

 **Maybe you guys can help me with a new look for the party,** Frisk signs, especially slowly for Papyrus, and Papyrus nods enthusiastically. Frisk can see in his eyes he’s already feverishly thinking about a gaudy manicure.

“Yeah. You know, kid,” Sans says, in a voice that would be innocently contemplative were it not for the look on his face, “you’ve really come to the right place with this. Haven’t they, bro?”

Papyrus squints at him.

“YES…?” he hazards.

“I mean, Frisk has a crush, you have a crush –“

 _Wait a minute_.

“I DO NOT,” Papyrus objects immediately, and is summarily ignored.

 **You have a C-R-U-S-H, Papyrus?!** Frisk signs excitedly, their own lovelorn misery immediately forgotten.

“NO,” Papyrus insists, and immediately glances to the left like he always does when he’s lying.

 **Yeah** , Sans signs, every part of his body radiating Machiavellian glee. **A big, gross, M-U-S-H-Y one** , he finger-spells with relish.

Frisk puts their hand over their mouth in delight.

 **Who is it?!** they sign eagerly, practically vibrating.

“THAT IS NOT IMPORTANT,” Papyrus says hurriedly, looking increasingly flustered. “I’M OVER IT, IT’S OVER, IT’S AN EX-CRUSH.”

“He still has it,” Sans says, grinning and so clearly enjoying himself. “It’s –“

“IT’S NOTHING, IT’S NOBODY,” Papyrus interrupts, elbowing Sans sharply in the ribs. “THE POINT IS, HAVING GRAZED MY BOAT AGAINST THE ROCKS OF LIFE, I CAN NOW GIVE YOU THE BENEFIT OF MY WISDOM!”

Frisk applauds politely, and Papyrus acknowledges it with grace.

“Okay, so,” Sans says, as he finally caves and gets up to fetch a bag of candy from the couch, “lay your wisdom on us, bro. How do we deal with a crush?”

“WELL,” Papyrus begins, laying a theatrical hand on his chest like he’s in a particularly unsubtle production of Hamlet, “PERSONALLY I FOCUSED ON ALL OF HIS WORST FEATURES AND CRUSHED MY FEELINGS DOWN INTO A TINY BALL SOMEWHERE NEAR MY FEET.”

Frisk blinks at him.

 **How did that go?** they sign.

Papyrus scowls.

“TERRIBLY! HE SWANS IN ALL TALL AND BROWN-EYED INTO _MY_ QUILTING CIRCLE, CHARMING ALL THE LADIES, AND HE DOESN’T EVEN HAVE THE DECENCY TO BE A BAD QUILTER! HE HAS SHOCKINGLY FEW BAD QUALITIES FOR SUCH AN IRRITATING PERSON!”

Frisk scoots a tiny bit away from Papyrus.

“Okay,” Sans says into the following silence. “Listen, bro, that’s… not really… the kind of advice we’re looking for? Frisk actually wants it to work out with this girl.”

Papyrus thinks about this, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I SEE…” he says, and then he brightens. “IN THAT CASE I HAVE AN EXCELLENT IDEA! WE SHOULD CALL –“

|

**Undyne**

Before they can make the call, Papyrus chances upon a showing of Titanic on TV, and everything grinds to a halt as they cuddle up on the sofa to watch it. By the time the three of them have dried their tears and are ready to consult Undyne it’s after midnight, they’re full of marshmallows and ice-cream, and Frisk is well into the giggle-drunk portion of the evening.

Sans puts her on speaker and says, “Undyne, we need love advice.”

Frisk does their silent impression of laughter, clapping both hands to their cheeks in mortification.

“For Papyrus?” Undyne asks. “Because I’m not touching that whole mess.”

“SHUT UP UNDYNE,” Papyrus says, diving so close to the phone his forehead is practically resting on the couch arm. “I’M OVER IT! I’M ALREADY OVER IT, AND NOW I AM JUST GIVING FRISK THE BENEFIT OF MY LIFE EXPERIENCE! IT WASN’T EVEN REALLY A CRUSH! IT WAS A HALF-CRUSH!”

 **Did everyone know about this but me?** Frisk demands of Sans, and Sans waves a dismissive hand, which means yes.

“Nah, for Frisk,” Sans says to the phone. “We need a present that a tough girl will like, so that she’ll know Frisk likes her.”

Undyne is quiet, as though she’s giving the matter great consideration.

“She’s a cool girl, right? She must be, if Frisk likes her,” she says, in a voice like she’s almost talking to herself. “I’ve got it! If she’s cool I bet she likes to bench-press stuff! Get her something heavy to bench-press!”

There’s a pause.

“Undyne, she’s ten,” Sans points out. There’s another pause.

“Listen, I’m gonna call you guys back,” Undyne says.

Frisk has just about enough time to spear a marshmallow on every fingertip and start nibbling them off before the phone rings.

“You know, tough girls are just like other girls,” Undyne says in lieu of any greeting. Her voice is slow and thoughtful. “And when any girl gets a present what’s important is, like, the thought the person put into it. So if you think of what she’s interested in and get her something to do with that, that’ll definitely work, because it shows you notice what she does and listen to her and junk. So for me, I like to bench-press stuff, so a good present for me would be… bench-pressable things. Know what I mean? Think of what her version of bench-pressable things would be.” 

|

**Papyrus’ Quilting Circle**

The plan of attack runs like this: the next day is Sunday, and Sans and Frisk are headed to the mall to try to find Ellery’s version of bench-pressable things. Papyrus, meanwhile, has his quilting circle meeting in the community college hall near the mall, and he’s going to pump the girls for more love advice.

It’s a good plan, mostly, except for the fact that Papyrus’ terrible awful not-crush is obviously there, demurring that he’s really struggling with his latest _perfectly beautiful, flawlessly color co-ordinated and expertly stitched quilt_ that he’s making for his niece who’s in hospital. He is the _worst_. He has hand-appliqued a teddy bear on it. Everything is terrible.

And _then_ , of course, he gushes over how nice Papyrus’ latest project is, and gets his big hands all over it, and Papyrus has just about had enough.

Later, when everyone has settled and they’re all full of Violet’s extra-special coconut-chocolate cookies, Papyrus tries to subtly breach the subject of…. Crushes.

It clearly isn’t half as subtle as he hoped it would be, because virtually all the ladies immediately begin giggling and nudging each other. Well, Ethel doesn’t, but Ethel is also almost completely deaf and generally doesn’t react to anything of a decibel level lower than a jet engine, so it’s cold comfort.

“ANYWAY,” he says loudly, trying to be heard over the hubbub, “IT’S FOR A FRIEND. I ALREADY GOT SOME ADVICE FROM OUR OTHER FRIEND, BUT I JUST WANTED TO… CHECK IT.”

Papyrus’ eyes catch on big interested brown ones, right over on the other side of the circle, and he feels a funny twist in his stomach. Too many marshmallows last night.

“Well, what was their advice, sweetheart?” Ruth asks, and she’s one of the very few who have kept a straight face so far, so Papyrus is a little heartened.

“SHE SAID THAT IT’S GOOD TO GIVE THE PERSON YOU LIKE A GIFT THAT RELATES TO THEIR INTERESTS,” he says. The women begin nodding in stereo, like a line of those novelty bobbleheads you get for car dashboards.

“Wise advice!” Ruth says. She holds her work up in front of her face and squints critically at her stitching without stopping talking. “Your friend is smart. Did she give you any advice for when her _first_ piece of advice works and you actually get a date?”

“I…. HADN’T THOUGHT THAT FAR,” Papyrus admits. Over on the other side of the circle, Papyrus can see that Ben’s ears are both sticking straight up, cocked forward. Usually, one is flicked lazily to the side.

“Oh yes, honey,” Ginger says, nodding sagely. “There’s so much more that comes on the date, you know! You have to be a gentleman –“

“IT’S NOT ADVICE FOR ME, REMEMBER,” Papyrus tries valiantly to point out, but the women are on a roll.

“I know people say it’s old-fashioned now, but I think you should hold the door open for your date –“

“If it’s you who asks for the date, then you should let your nice young man be the one to pick the venue!”

“Oh yes, don’t forget your manners!”

“Ask lots of questions and listen to what he says!”

“Discuss your _shared interests_!” 

This last one gets a gust of giggles from all the women, an elbow in Margie’s ribs, and several myopic but significant looks at Ben’s side of the circle. When Papyrus glances over at Ben, he finds he’s already being watched. There’s only a split second where their eyes meet before Ben looks away, raising a palm to the back of his neck and smiling ruefully.

Papyrus staggers out almost an hour later feeling traumatized, and hoarse from protesting. It takes a mall forecourt milkshake to revive him, and then when Frisk and Sans ask for a report, all he can muster is a weak _WELL THEY LIKED UNDYNE’S ADVICE, SO I THINK WE’RE ON THE RIGHT TRACK._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a lot harder to write the rest of this than I thought it would be, and the last couple weeks have been slammed. This still isn’t the end, but I thought I’d throw up what I have so far, and hopefully get the third part finished over Christmas.

**Napstablook and Mettaton**

Frisk knows the second they see it what Ellery’s version of bench-pressable things is. After a fruitless, frustrating hour spent trailing round looking at stuffed animals and chocolates and jewellery, they come across an art store tucked right in the back of the mall. In the window is a gorgeous wooden box of paints. 

Frisk can immediately imagine the things that Ellery would paint – the big golden dog Frisk knows she has, and the kindly grandfather who walks her to school in the mornings.

**This!** Frisk signs immediately, tugging Sans over to the window by his sleeve. **It has to be this!**

|

When they arrive home, it’s to find that Mettaton and Napstablook have gone ahead and let themselves in to the house, using the spare key stowed under the flowerpot. Frisk checks their watch and blinks in shock – it’s after two already.

“Helloooo, darlings!” Mettaton carols from the direction of the kitchen at the sound of their footsteps.

“we already made some tea… hope that’s okay…” Napstablook adds, much more softly.

“WOWIE, WE COMPLETELY FORGOT ABOUT YOU GUYS!! WE’VE JUST BEEN HAVING SUCH AN EXCITING WEEKEND!” Papyrus says, bounding into the kitchen, apparently completely recovered from his earlier ordeal.

“Forgot?!” Mettaton demands, draping himself backwards over his kitchen chair in an exaggerated despairing swoon. “About _MOI_?? Impossible!”

“Hard to believe,” Sans says mildly, pulling out a chair for Frisk and heading over to one of the kitchen cabinets to get the cocoa down. “But possible.”

“i’m surprised too… i can see how it would be easy to forget about me, but mettaton… that’s surprising…” Napstablook says with a little sigh. Sans leans over Napstablook from behind the chair and drops a little box of oolong tea on the table in front of them.

“Frisk picked this up for you special last week,” he says, and a pleased, faint pinkness washes over Napstablook.

**Not forgotten!** Frisk signs fiercely, nodding, and Napstablook’s expression assembles itself into what passes for a smile with them.

“Well, I MUST hear what has been so exciting, then,” Mettaton says, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. “Tell me, young Frisk. But _slowly_.”

Frisk grins, kicking their feet. Talking about something like a crush is fun with Mettaton because he makes something that is already intense and exciting into something even _more_ intense and exciting. Mettaton makes everything bigger, more dramatic, more ridiculous.

**C-R-U-S-H,** Frisk signs, mindful of Mettaton’s signing skills, or lack of.

“Oooooooh!” Mettaton says immediately, his mouth making a delighted pink _o_ around the sound. Frisk ducks their head, beaming at the tabletop.

“And what are they like?” he asks, pitching his voice low and encouraging, sincere and not teasing at all. When Frisk glances up again it’s to see that Sans has just placed a steaming mug on the table in front of Mettaton. He reaches over and clasps Sans’ elbow briefly in wordless thanks.

**C-O-O-L!** Frisk signs. **Her name is E-L-L-E-R-Y! She likes A-R-T and K-A-R-A-T-E!**

“She sounds wonderful,” Mettaton allows, raising his eyebrows as he takes a cautious sip from his mug. His eyes crinkle up in catlike pleasure at the taste.

“Ahh, young love,” he sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Between you and darling Papyrus, I’m starting to feel so old… Left alone on the dusty shelf of _l’amour_ …”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, BETWEEN FRISK AND ME?” Papyrus demands immediately. Mettaton ignores him in favor of heaving a huge sigh.

Sans rolls his eyes and tosses a packet of cookies onto the table so it bumps against Mettaton’s arm.

“You’ll always have me there with you,” he says. “Cheer up, I got the ones with rainbow candy baked in.”

Mettaton’s expression comes over all catlike again, but there’s a side of slyness this time alongside the pleasure.

“Will I, now,” he says mildly, voice serious. He sounds like he knows something nobody else does. Sans’ smile doesn’t shift, but it gains a slightly fixed quality, one that Frisk doesn’t think they’d be able to see if they didn’t know Sans so, so well.

“You will,” he says firmly. Frisk glances between the two of them, confused, but Mettaton doesn’t offer anything else, just takes another sip.

“I REALLY DON’T LIKE HIM, YOU KNOW,” Papyrus insists suddenly, very loudly. “HE DRESSES LIKE A CLOWN. IT BURNS MY EYES.”

Mettaton raises a single eyebrow, immediately all play again.

“Really, darling?” he asks. He sweeps his gaze right down from Papyrus’ raggedy scarf to his mismatched shoes. “That’s an… issue for you?”

Frisk has a feeling there’s about to be a fight, or what passes for a fight in Sans’ and Papyrus’ house, which is that Papyrus is about to be hopelessly outmatched and mercilessly – if mostly fondly – teased. That’s Mettaton’s idea of a super fun Saturday night, of course, and normally it’s funny to see Papyrus flail and get all blushy, but today Frisk feels kind of protective.

**Yes, well – I need some advice,** Frisk signs quickly, hoping to head Mettaton off. They glance at Sans to make a translation, which he does. Of course, the truth is that Frisk feels like they’ve already had enough advice for five lifetimes, but they can take one for the team.

“Well, young Frisk, as I said I’ve never been moored on the jagged rocks of the heart,” Mettaton says, waving an airy hand. “So I’ll hand you over to my dearest Napstablook on this one.”

**You’ve been in love, Napstablook?** Frisk signs, only realizing when they’ve already spoken that their clear surprise might be insulting. The sentence is signed quickly enough that Sans relays a translation, and thankfully the tone of Sans’ voice does something to it so it sounds better. Napstablook blinks big, startled black eyes.

“…i… oh, yes….” they say vaguely, floating up a little out of their chair like the steam from their tea is buoying them up, or like the memory is coming back to them on a breeze. “it was a long time ago… i was a young ghost then… her name was annalisa…”

Frisk chances a look around the room. Everyone is watching Napstablook, rapt.

“i wrote a song for her on the lute, then realized i had no arms to play it…”

Frisk chances a glance over at Sans to find that Sans is already looking over at them, and clearly trying not to laugh. There’s a mischievous light in his eyes. Frisk immediately stares down at the table, letting their hair make a canopy over their face, and bites their lip hard.

“she ran away with a man from the circus…” Napstablook concludes. When Frisk lifts their head up to chance a glance at Sans, it’s to see that he’s now turned back to face the kitchen cabinets, and his shoulders are shaking slightly. “he had arms _and_ legs…”

“A tragedy!” Mettaton wails, leaping out of his chair and going to embrace Napstablook.

Great, so now in trying to head off a minor bout of teasing, Frisk has managed to reduce two of the party to almost the point of tears. Sans must be able to feel Frisk’s panicked gaze burning into his back, because he turns around and nods covertly.

“Hey, guys,” he says, clearing his throat. Everyone looks up at him. Mettaton even pauses mid-howl. Sans stuffs his hands into his pockets, all casual. “So, Frisk is going to this girl’s birthday party, and they need a cool new look for it…”

There’s a definite gleam in Mettaton’s eye. Frisk has a second or two to feel fear.

|

By the time Toriel comes by to pick them up, just before dinner, Frisk has a different color of eyeshadow on each eyelid, a head full of tiny braids done so tight they stick up vertically, a lopsided pair of fairy wings on their back, and non-matching socks pulled up to their knees. Every step they take makes glitter fall from… Somewhere to land around their feet.

Toriel just stares at Sans, standing sheepishly in the doorway behind Frisk. Sans actually looks abashed.

“Ah,” she says mildly, turning a big smile on Frisk. She’s clearly been in the bath all afternoon and nothing is going to spoil her mood, no matter how hard it is to get glitter out of carpet (very hard. It’s very, very hard. Frisk knows). “Did you have fun, my little one?”

Frisk nods very firmly.

“Well, that’s the important thing, then,” she says.

“Tori –“ Sans starts, and then seems to realize he has absolutely no idea how to even finish that sentence. Toriel laughs like a bell, clear and happy, when he trails off.

“It’s fine!” she says. Her eyes are all pulled up at the corners like they get when Frisk does something cute enough to make her get her camera out. Frisk glances between them, between Toriel’s bright happy face and the dull flush creeping up Sans’ under her regard, and wonders.


End file.
